


Beyond

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-01
Updated: 2006-03-01
Packaged: 2018-08-15 21:53:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8074036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Malcolm deals. (07/24/2004)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Spoilers, 3.19 "Damage," 3.22 "The Council."  
  
These author's notes are dedicated to SueC. This chapter was very hard. Of course I know what's coming but that just makes it harder. I'm sorry if this story doesn't prove to be very up lifting, but not everything can be exciting and orgiastic all of the time. Thanks to my betas who are always around to lend a hand and some inspiration when things are down. I love reviews, they make my insides scream with unrestrained and passionate joy. One more coming, and it's Trip's so it's going to be a wild ride.  
  
Beta readers: Akin and Cha Oyese Tempest Thrain  


* * *

> I heard of a Saint who had loved you  
> So I studied all night in his school  
> He taught that the duty of lovers  
> Is to tarnish the golden rule  
> And just when I was sure  
> That his teachings were pure  
> He drowned himself in the pool  
> His body is gone  
> But back here on the lawn  
> His spirit continues to drool.
> 
> â€”Leonard Cohen, "One of Us Cannot Be Wrong"

* * *

Marriage is a contract—a legal bond between two people...though I'm not sure I believe in it. My parents have been married more than thirty years, and it doesn't mean they love each other. It just means that they don't want to get divorced. Whenever they have an argument, my mother will threaten to leave. That's the only real power she has over him, seeing as how she can't use us children as leverage anymore. But she never does. Not because my father has any particularly redeeming qualities, but because she won't break the contract. Thirty years as a Navy wife have taught her a lot about duty.

Though I make my career in an obsession with safety and preserving the perfect comfort of the status quo, I can't help but despise those things that made him choose the so-called 'lesser man.' For once in my life I'd like to defy duty and obligation—have someone defy it for me. I used to secretly admire Trip's willful disregard for the rulesâ€”his courage to step outside the box. But in the end he's just as trapped by those contracts and promises as I am.

He says he loves me, and I believe him. He just doesn't love me enough to sift through ten years of baggage to find me. Every breakup is hard. Every change hurts. That's why men like me exist—to preserve the status quo. But sometimes you have to surrender, cut your losses when you realize you've picked a losing fight. I can't blame him for wanting days he can never buy back when the rest of the world seems to crumble, but a part of me is deeply wounded by the fact that he won't even try to save himself.

When I was younger I used to imagine that I could see the future. I would imagine every possibility—map the course of objects through time like pieces on a chessboard. If you could plan for every strategic possibility, could you, in a sense, divine the future? I used to see myself detached from the game, looking at it from above with some sort of lofty significance, as though I could become something greater by not being a part of anything at all.

But that's where the rule comes in. The one Trip and I have discussed at length when trying to align the particle containment on the phase cannons: The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle. You can't know both the position and the velocity of a sub atomic particle. You can know possibilities—probabilities, but you can't know both with any kind of certainty. By observing, you alter.

I couldn't stay away. I involved myself, still trying to hold onto my objectivity and the illusion of duty. And now that the experiment is over, so am I. I knew all of the probabilities. And I knew that none of them were good.

Yes, it hurts, but I predicted that too. It's more of a dull ache than a stabbing pain. Yet I have no compulsions to take my life or drown my sorrow with a bottle. I think I might have finally achieved the emptiness I sought so long ago. I can feel the tendrils of feeling that I let creep into this life receding. I can start seeing people as statistics again, though there's a part of me that resents it. There are probabilities that we will all die here in the Expanse. The probabilities are almost as high as the likelihood of Trip leaving me.

I guess I've found another reason why Trip and I were doomed before we even began: I'm a natural cynic, and he's romantic through and through (including the passionate depressions). In fact, the more I list the reasons why our relationship would never have worked, the more I realize that nothing I tell myself is going to stop this hurt.

Yet I must have a romantic in me. If I didn't I wouldn't have still expected the world to be fair—to give me everything that I worked so hard for. And there's a part of me that wants things to work out for them. There's a part that believes in true love, even if I'm not worthy of it.

I'm down in the armory, running a diagnostic on the phase cannon control computer. It's menial work, but with the ship still badly damaged, most work is menial work. It helps me keep my mind off things. It gives me a sense of control.

On a whim I decide to check the ship wide surveillance tapes. There was an incident not that long ago in cargo bay two, in which some of the supply containers seemed to miraculously change position. Unfortunately, the computer deleted the recordings in-between. I only have before and after shots. Though it's a pretty wild idea that someone might have gone to the trouble to put n an EV suit just to rearrange some supply containers for some nefarious purpose and it was either a computer glitch or an unlogged visit by an engineer who needed a part, I like to keep an eye on things.

One of the cameras is picking up motion in a section that is still listed as unrepaired. I bring up the footage to find myself both ashamed and oddly transfixed. I suppose it's just coincidence, but a small part of me thinks it could be fate. I'm looking at the port observation lounge, where there are two figures, clearly dancing, overstepping the fallen wall paneling and shattered light fixtures as though they weren't there.

I know I'm intruding on their privacy, but I can't bring myself to look away. I recognize the fair blond hair and lanky figure, though Trip seems so strange without the tension that has been clinging to him for the longest time. And I can just see the look on Archer's face from this angle. It's so different than the commanding brood that we've all become so accustomed to. Without the crease in his brow and the slight downturn of his lips, he looks years younger.

He isn't smiling that wide almost laughing grin he used to give when was announcing our up-coming arrival a M-class planet, or the playful half smiles used to entice and disarm reluctant companions. It's not even the stiff near-grimace of the perpetual diplomat and commander. He's not really smiling at all. There's a slight upturn of his lips, but they appear to be resting that way, as though the frown has been falsely imposed this entire time. It's now that I realize that, though I count himâ€”or used to count himâ€”as both friend and captain, I have never seen the truly relaxed and defenseless Jonathan Archer. He looks so...at home.

He turns his head from where it's resting on Trip's shoulder, kissing his neck and breathing in the scent of his hair. His eyes close and I can see the relief on his face, at this small reassurance. His hands roam down the sinewy body that I now find so familiar, playing over the muscles like a musician touches a favorite instrument.

I don't know how, but they look absolutely perfect together, as though seeing them apart would be just unnatural. I finally understand what they mean when they say that a relationship can complete you. And I understand what Trip meant when he said that they needed each otherâ€”that they couldn't possibly live apart. I was just a hiccup in their relationship. A friend, someone to hold onto in a time of need, but what they have...They've already proven that it's indestructible. Perhaps I'm lucky to even witness something like this...you can see the intimacy just by watching them.

Trip was right. He did leave me for the lesser man, but I can't bring myself to be angry anymore. Archer hasn't done anything but hurt him since we entered the Expanse. He has alienated his lover and the rest of the crew, made ethical decisions that are worse off than just questionable, and nearly killed Trip from heartbreak. But that doesn't change the fact that they can dance like thatâ€”that Archer is the one he loves.

Looking at them now, I can see clearly the difference between loving someone and being in love with them. They just have a certain je ne se quoi. Somehow they can make the ruined chaos of their surroundings breathtakingly beautiful, just by standing in it. Perhaps that what it means to love someone. It's not always right, or logical, or even admirable, but it is mesmerizing, and indestructible.

If I want to believe that love conquers all, don't I have to want them to succeed?

* * *

I'm not avoiding them. As tactical officer, I can't really avoid my captain and second officer on a damaged ship under constant threat of attack. It's not that I resent them for what little happiness they can grab, but rather that I feel as though I'm intruding. The nerves are still too raw, like a scar not quite healed. And it's not as though we have much time to sort through our personal lives, no matter how unwieldy they've become.

Still, I'm a bit surprised when the captain steps out of his mess, a Cheshire grin on his face. I know we're negotiating, but being surrounded in a Xindi stronghold is still battleground for me. It's not a good time to drop our guard when we've come to the last stand—even if that stand is made at the negotiating table.

He makes his way over to the food line where I'm standing, and I let him in front of me. He looks slightly uncomfortable, but in a good-natured sort of way.

"Sir." I nod.

"Good evening, Malcolm." He orders mashed potatoes and the looks around suspiciously, as though stealing them. I can't keep the smile off my face.

"I don't know what you're doing, Sir, but if you looked anymore guilty, I would be obligated to throw you in the brig." I guess Trip has rubbed off on me a little bit. Malcolm Reed, joking to relieve the tension—and I thought I'd never see the day.

The captain chuckles leans in for a stage whisper. "Trip swears chef is conspiring against him for putting his kitchen at the bottom of the repair list. Something about a surprise in his mashed potatoes. T'Pol suggested we conduct an experiment. I'm just collecting the 'control' samples.' He winks.

I don't know why this playful little anecdote touches me so much. It's just so typical of Trip to worry about what's in his food when we're on the home stretch. I reminds me both of the man before the Expanse got to him and the fact that I'm once again on the outside looking in.

"You know Trip," Archer smiles, "If someone isn't conspiring against him, he's offended that he's being ignored." It also reminds me of the litany of these little intimacies that I've missed: the familiar glint in Archer's eye and the indulgence in petty flirtations—the way a silly routine can become your lifeline and just another way to say I love you.

Archer must see the look on my face, because realization dawns in those still-pained green eyes, like the explosion of motion after the first shot. He knows I _know_ Trip—far more than he would like. I see jealousy electrify his posture for a tense second before he relaxes and turns away. He always has been a bit of a territorial one. "I'd better be getting these back before anyone starts getting suspicious. See you tomorrow, Malcolm."

I know things are going to be awkward for a while—that I'm not going to be able to look at either of them without thinking about a future that might have been, and whether that kind of justice is really worth it. But I also know that there is a future beyond this. And I'm willing to face it.


End file.
